Edgeball: A Table Tennis Player's Lament
By Dr. Brian Doherty 12/2/2014
A certain photo appeared last month with me at the height of my glory (alas, the lofty height is 2nd place, D division of the tournament held on November 1). In a caption, a certain person (it was Marguerite Cheung) offhandedly suggested “maybe he’ll write a poem about it.” I took this as a challenge, a throw-down, but finding little inspiration to turn my triumph into art, I instead went deep into my soul for this piece. Thanks to Kayla Jones for illustration.
Table Tennis Player’s Lament
I fear the net despises me,
That it carries an ancient grudge.
Like a cop it arrests my ball while in flight,
Cries “Halt!” and refuses to budge.
My racket, it seems, is against me.
From my hand it awkwardly dangles.
It careens into balls, when it hits them at all,
Too hard, too soft, at wrong angles.
“It’s the table!” I cry, “It is not fair!
I could swear the thing is misshapen.
The opponent’s side is a mere postage stamp,
While mine is as big as a playpen.”
“Wait,” you’ll say, “players often change sides.”
It is this I find most confusing, see,
Disproportion holds sway, no matter what side I play,
Ping pong gods find glee in abusing me.
It’s the ball! The air! The curve of the earth!
All conspiring to mess up my game.
My childhood! Genetics! That girl in third grade!
But. . . tomorrow I’ll play just the same.
For like an addict with drugs, an alkie with drink,
It’s destroying myself that thrills me.
Despite embarrassing losses, and going backward in skills,
I’ll play this damned game till it kills me.
I fear the net despises me,
That it carries an ancient grudge.
Like a cop it arrests my ball while in flight,
Cries “Halt!” and refuses to budge.
My racket, it seems, is against me.
From my hand it awkwardly dangles.
It careens into balls, when it hits them at all,
Too hard, too soft, at wrong angles.
“It’s the table!” I cry, “It is not fair!
I could swear the thing is misshapen.
The opponent’s side is a mere postage stamp,
While mine is as big as a playpen.”
“Wait,” you’ll say, “players often change sides.”
It is this I find most confusing, see,
Disproportion holds sway, no matter what side I play,
Ping pong gods find glee in abusing me.
It’s the ball! The air! The curve of the earth!
All conspiring to mess up my game.
My childhood! Genetics! That girl in third grade!
But. . . tomorrow I’ll play just the same.
For like an addict with drugs, an alkie with drink,
It’s destroying myself that thrills me.
Despite embarrassing losses, and going backward in skills,
I’ll play this damned game till it kills me.
